☣️ rage and melancholy | OPEN

[enblightened]

Who: Bigby the Abomination, OPEN
What: Catch-all for December!
When: December
Where: Various locations to coincide with the event, mostly in the woods because he still got no house
Notes: Prompts this time will be placed into separate comments for ease of navigation! In addition, if you want to make your own prompt, please help yourself, or you can ask me for a specific one.

Content Warnings: Body horror as is always the case with him, violence, torture, severe depression, PTSD, religious zealotry, intense and irrational paranoia.

Comments

☣️ regret | post-falco titan shenanigans

[enblightened]

[It's one of the rare cases that Bigby finds himself missing the church halls of the hamlet he'd been in before Trench. There, at least he had a place to pray, to meditate clearly, to at least feel the whispering touch of something that would acknowledge him. Here, in Trench, he must make do somehow.

The pain of knowing he had a helping hand in bringing down Falco still aches in his chest. He's wept privately, mourned, even knowing that he will likely return as all do, but it makes the killing no easier. He wishes there had been another way than one with death.

But not all demons can be defeated with will and desperation. Sometimes, it becomes with just violence, and it hurts.

Outside of the woods where he normally stays, Bigby sits, legs crossed. In front of him is a humble fire, and he shudders -- but not from the cold.]

I beg you, Light -- forgive me. If there had been another way...

[Habits die hard, and he wishes for absolution.]

i’m gonna wreck it!

[grice]

[ sooner or later, falco would have to meet with the others— bigby included. he wasn’t in perfect shape, having suffered the strange detachment, fatigue and emotional bursts that came with death in trench (or just becoming one with the silence) and needing further time to adjust his senses. he got himself work to do during the day, memorandums to keep his spirits still alive and, once ready, sought out the emotional support he’s craved from the very start of it all but felt too unworthy to ask, or allow himself.

he had to find them, and now, he tells his omen: help me find bigby. and so she does, leading the boy just outside of trenchwood. he’s far behind her but knows where to follow— she would, however, be the first that bigby would see, not making her arrival by any means stealthy.

perle, the smallest of pygmy falcons, lands from her glide onto a branch opposite to bigby’s front line of sight, tips and turns her head in every bird-like manner known— and chirps, chatters, glances down at the man and his fire, and calls for her boy to come follow. ]

[enblightened]

[The Light has never abandoned him, not truly. It was not an all powerful thing, but the flickering flame that still keeps humanity alive in the dark, struggling just as much as the rest of them. Yet, he begs its forgiveness anyway. There are questionable things he has done in the past, but killing a child no matter the circumstance is something he never he'd never thought would be done.

He pauses from his prayer as he sees the pygmy falcon land. There are not many birds he is familiar with, so he takes a moment to try to sort it out -- small, but with talons, a bird of prey of course -- but it does sink in that perhaps this is not native to the area.

Perhaps it is an omen.

Who would be out here besides himself, he wonders faintly.]

☣️ winter mourning | memory sharing prompts

[enblightened]

A.
[He cannot remember the last time he has seen the sun.

Their cells do not have windows, after all. The only way he is able to tell time is when his poisoned veins scream for the moon when it is full, and even from there they sedate him to ensure that the beast does not emerge. Truthfully, that is the most kind these brothers and sisters are, when they force him to drink and sleep through such nights.

Today is not so kind.

He is dragged from his cell by two brothers of the Light, and his weak legs barely remember to stumble after them to carry at least a bit of his own weight. In the darkest pit of their dungeon, he is pinned down. He doesn't understand what's happening as they shave half of his head of hair.

In front of him is a man he knows too well by now after the past ten years. He grins, delighted as he presses a poker into hot coals.

"There is no curing you," his torturer says, far from lamenting and instead sounding giddy. "Of that we know too well now."

In his bones and blood, Bigby knows that much is true. He's spent so long here, having long since accepted his circumstance, his undesirable other half. Still confused, he gazes up, and he is met with a sinister smile.

It is not a firepoker, he realizes. It is a brand.

"Abomination," the man tsks. "We will continue to teach you the Light."]

Don't-- [Bigby's voice chokes, fear in his heart.] You know not what you do!

["Hold him."]

You will draw it out!

[The brand presses down onto his head, burning flesh. The heat sears into him, unbelievable pain, ruining and scarring flesh forever, making it impossible to easily hide it.

A for Abomination.

But the pain is enough to follow through on Bigby's warnings; the beast takes it as a threat, and rage boils over. With a monstrous, shrieking cry, his body changes into the hulking thing. His torturer is startled and makes a break for it, but his two brothers are not so fortunate.

Howling, the monster rips its claws through one of their torsos, his insides spilling to the floor. The other is thrown with such force that bones crunch and flesh squelches, killing him instantly.

In the hallways, Bigby howls, enraged and despondent.]


B.
[After decades of pointless torture, enough had been enough, and Bigby followed through on one clear path that both he and his monster could agree on: freedom.

He did honestly try to keep the deaths down to a minimum, despite his conflicted hatred of his horrific caretakers, both old and new. Perhaps they thought they were following the right path, trying to force a man to repent for sins, as if that would ever cast the literal demon inside of him out. Or perhaps they merely drank off of the thrill of causing him pain, day after day, month after month, year after year. Regardless, as he ran out into the night, feeling the earth and grass against his bare feet and tasting fresh air finally, there was a sense of relief at last.

But still, so few places for him to go.

Eventually, after his wanderings, he found himself in a quaint hamlet, but quaint for a reason: the entire estate was infected with wicked darkness, beasts, monsters, cultists, and bandits, twisted down to barely a shell of its former life. The noble this one belonged to is long since dead, his heir left to stand and try to reclaim what was foolishly spent away. But they need muscle, people with so little to lose, and Bigby recognizes that he wants to do something with himself instead of just run and hide away.

The heir, even after learning of his unique... condition, accepts him. Maybe out of desperation, who could say? As he's integrated with the rest of the colorful band of mercenaries that have been formed, he is not unaware of how some of them look at him.

Even under the helmet, Bigby can feel the scathing glare of the Crusader.

"I will not serve with this... creature," he says, voice dripping with loathing. The Vestal, the Leper, the Flagellant -- their sentiments only match with their fellow devout.

The heir is ready to protest, but Bigby shakes his head.]

Those of faith have no tolerance for those with my condition. Do not force them to act against their nature.

[Frankly, if they even just decide to leave him alone, that is enough for Bigby.]


C.

["You turned away from the Light. That is why the Darkness poisons you now."

If only it were so simple. It was an accident, produced merely by the desire to help, which has horrifically backfired into his current circumstances.

Here, his chains are wraped tight around his wrists, forcing him down in a kneeling position with his back exposed. After years of pain, one never really gets used to it, he thinks to himself as he braces for impact.

Leather strikes his back.

"Repent!"

Bigby gasps and trembles, rubbing his forehead against the filthy brick flooring. At first, he thought that perhaps if he tried, if he sought absolution, maybe the Light would take mercy upon him and relieve him of this curse. After years and years, it's become clear that this is where he will be. This is what he will be.

Another strike.

"Repent!"

He can't think to repent for wanting to help other people.]


D.
[Most of the hallways smell of rotting flesh. Though it's far from their first expedition down here, it still makes all of them grimace. Distantly, they can hear the sounds of hooves against the stone, the squealing of the pigfolk.

When they find the Formless Flesh, it quivers, forever changing its shape into teeth, guts, bones, and eyes. Yet, it is still dangerous, and it hungers.

MEAT, the monster inside of Bigby screams, and he winces, trying to not feel sick at the prospect of it.

Still, he transforms, howling, fangs bared.

Two hungers, prepared to battle each other.]

( c )

[danserai]

[ oh. that's so awful. why were they punishing him? why weren't they trying to help him? she doesn't understand and she can't help sobbing at the sight of it. she runs up to the torturer, trying to push him away. ]

Stop it! You're hurting him!

[enblightened]

[Despite it being a memory, it is tangible; Ahiru successfully pushes the torturer, if only because he is startled by the presence of someone else who shouldn't be here, much less a young girl.

"Away with you, child!" the man sneers. "The sin runs deep in this one. His flesh must be sacrificed to once again be welcomed into Light!"

Hesitantly, Bigby lifts his head, briefly puzzled. He knows that voice, even if technically he shouldn't...]

Ahiru?

["A fellow sinner to join you, Abomination?"]

N-no! No, she is-- she is innocent. Please.

A

[droptheious]

[Varian is no stranger to prison cells. He spent a year of his life in one, after all. In a dark, miserable dungeon with only the occasional flicker of sunlight when it hit the prison walls just right. But he was kept in his cell for a reason. For something deserved. As he watches this play out, he knows this isn't deserved. This isn't justice. This is torture.

He's still feeling anxious and angry- a solid mix of corruption and blood effects. His own skin is covered in a strange rocky substance- but at least in the memory he is given relief from the hallucinations that have been plaguing him. Not that this is much better. He steps forward as they grab the brand- as if he can make a difference to this at all. He can't of course, he doesn't have that sort of power and his hand goes right through the monster branding Bigby.

The change in the man comes fast, and Varian takes a step backwards in surprise when it does. It's familiar but not. Like Catalina but at the same time exceptionally different. Even without all the spiked anxiety in his head, he wouldn't have thought anything but a quiet, spiteful little good as Bigby tore his torturers apart. Only when they're dead and Bigby is howling does he move forward- he's been in people's memories before, he knows how this goes. ]

..Bigby?

[enblightened]

[Something clicks in his head, knowing that it's wrong. That he shouldn't... hear Varian's voice, but he knows it. Jerking his head around, he snarls, baring his rows of fangs, green eyes glaring. Confusion, fury -- but knows this face and this voice.

He approaches, but with distinctly less violent intent for Varian, despite the rage in his poisoned blood.

The beast snorts, and he looks at Varian. This is a memory, he shouldn't be seeing him at all, and yet... some manner of magic allows it.]

A.

[laminae]

[In better circumstances, Fern would be excited to be in a dark, dank dungeon like this one. This screams dungeon crawl to him, and normally that would mean this place is somewhere he's right at home in. Fight a few monsters, scavenge some loot, have a great time.

This place isn't one of those kinds of dungeons. It's dark and dank, sure, and it's lacking the same sense of adventure. This is just... wrong, and it's even worse as he watches everything play out. Bigby had told him about the brand, how it wasn't a cool tattoo he got on purpose, but seeing it actually happen in front of him is something else. Fern watches in horror as Bigby is held down, his head shaved, and that brand seared into the side of his head.

He's enraged, he's completely and utterly enraged. He doesn't even realize it but his own appearance is shifting to something more demonic - something more fitting to tear those asshole zealots apart, reflecting the volatility of his emotions. Thankfully (?) Bigby takes care of most of them in his monstrous state.

Fern isn't even bothered by the shift, or the violence. What catches his eye is the third man managing to run out of the room, and he snarls at that.]

He's getting away!

[enblightened]

[Meat. Freedom. MORE.

Fern calling out regarding the last man urges him on. The chains and shackles that held him bound are now shattered, clinking away. They are not like the enchanted ones that he wears by choice, as these were truly meant to keep him held back.

Now, on all fours, he runs down the hall after the last zealot brother, howling for his blood.

"It's free!" the man tries to call for others. "It--"

Barely another word is spoken. Bigby pounces, immediately tearing into flesh, biting down on the back of the man's neck. The torturer flails, screaming.]

C

[shiro2hero]

[He should know better. All this time in Deerington, and now Trench. He should damn well know there won't be anything he can do to interfere. But that's never stopped him from trying.]

[After all, you never know when they'll change the rules on you.]

[The only part of this he recognizes here is Bigby. Who, despite all his protests, had done nothing wrong the entire time he'd been in Trench. Who always seemed to be holding himself back, for other people - ]

[So the only natural thing to do is throw his metal arm between the lash and the man. Hoping for the best - expecting nothing to change.]

[But he has to try.]

[enblightened]

[This time, it plays into Shiro's favor. This time.

The makeshift whip winds around Shiro's metal arm, the strike not meeting Bigby's back. The torturer is startled, stepping back. "What devilry is this?!"

Bigby hesitantly lifts his head, puzzled. When-- how? Yet, he knows that Shiro is here, nonetheless.]

Shiro...

B

[megatheorem]

[By no means is Palamedes a mercenary - he barely exists in the same universe as mercenaries - and yet here he is, fiddling with his glasses just off to the side while the conversation plays out before him. He makes a guess at who's who; mostly who's in charge, and who's actually in charge, as the one that appears to be the richest and finest dressed is not, it seems, wielding total authority over these mercenaries and their... complaints.

Or maybe they're just assholes; Palamedes could go either way. He scoffs, shutting one eye and squinting through the other as he holds his glasses up to the nearest flickering torchlight. He's since made the executive decision not to question what is happening or why or how; it is what it is. Questions come later, when there's time.]

Their nature is embarrassing and their manners cretinous. Funny how reliable that is no matter where I end up.

[It's just very Eighth, these protests under the guise of faith; he has no patience for it. After another beat of squinting, he pops his glasses back on and eyes the group.]

Well, I'm not interested in serving with a ragtag gaggle of pricks, so are we splitting the party?

[hi bigby]

[enblightened]

Palamedes?

[For a moment, Bigby sounds puzzled. This doesn't line up, and should not line up. And yet, here the necromancer is anyway.

Fortunately, this has played out enough times that he's starting to recognize the pattern enough. His memory is being played out again. Sometimes he's just watching, or he's reexperiencing it. This time, it's not as terrible as the others. Not nearly as miserable, just quietly disheartening.]

Forgive me. I did not expect this to happen, but... this is not the worst place I could be remembering, at the very least.

I believe the heir opted to have me go on an expedition without the faithful involved.

c.

[ex_of620]

[ a flash of teal settles in between the two. the next strike does not find its intended target, the whip winding haphazardly around a seemingly young boy's gloved hand instead. his fist tightens around leather like he intends to disarm at a moment's notice, wholly defensive than prepared to wound, though that isn't necessarily off the table; xiao won't go so far as to kill a mortal, but he isn't above subduing one. ]

... Who are they to demand repentance from you?

[ xiao addresses bigby rather than the perceived foe, hardly deigning himself to speak with one who would harm their fellow man, already bound and on their knees. ]

[enblightened]

[When the next strike does not come down, Bigby tenses up in confusion. He turns his head, baffled, trembling as blood runs down his back. The zealot that had been beating him looks confused in turn, but tries to pull his makeshift whip back.

"You interfere?!" the torturer demands. "In the Light's work?"

Bigby does not pay head to him, but to the person who had suddenly arrived.]

The brothers and sisters of the Church. My blood is cursed, and I was... submitted to their methods in an attempt to cure me.

Who are you?

c.

[peripheries]

[For a moment, Kaworu simply watches. He doesn't flinch. Most unusual for a boy his age. It is funny, this practice of making someone suffer to get them to apologize. How would the torturer ever know if the person meant it or not? Was just hearing them say it enough?

However, the moment suddenly starts to grow long and the sound of the whip on flesh suddenly starts to burn in his ears, twisting, twitching, like it's burrowing itself into his brain and he wants to make it stop.

So he steps forward towards the man, hands in his pockets, and suddenly the whip hits something in the air. A soft light covers Kaworu and the man as a barrier forms, preventing any further impact or approach.

Then Kaworu drops down to look at him.]

What did you do?

[enblightened]

[The torturer lets out a surprised yell when the whip cannot continue forward, and he tries again to no avail. "Devilry! What aid have you called for, abomination?!" the zealot demands.

But Bigby does not acknowledge him, not now. Not when he has this boy staring at him, demanding.]

In whose eyes do you ask, child?

D

[imaglyphwitch]

[Boy, if there was something that Luz was not prepared for today, it was seeing a mash of flesh and teeth and skin, and it all coming together to form this monster kind of thing, which looked honestly pretty scary.

Luz felt like screaming, but the less rational part of her wanted to see what was happening here, who this WAS. She approached, staff in hand, warily.

"H-hello?"

[enblightened]

Oh. This was not accounted for.

For a moment, Bigby stills as he looks at the young girl with the staff, letting out a confused whine. It does click into place that now Luz was in here, in his memory, but that does not make this any less dangerous.

The everchanging mound of Flesh wheezes and snarls, a tendril made of entrails whipping around and striking Bigby across the maw. In return, Bigby snarls and claws at the monstrosity before he's backing up and trying to make sure that he's in front of Luz to protect her.

C.

[13thcommander]

[This is a memory, someone else's memory, and yet it's familiar at the same time. Erwin has been held in a cell like this before, chained and beaten, unable to defend himself. He recognises the stink of fear and old blood, and draws his cloak closer around himself.]

[It's clearly a memory, because he has both arms.]

[Erwin follows the sound of someone being beaten, and when the spectacle comes into view, he sucks in his breath. Just like he thought: someone chained, unable to defend themselves, getting scourged. Worse than that: someone he knows.]

[It's a good thing this is a memory, because Erwin doesn't put much thought into his next action. He reacts on instinct, the way Levi does, and charges right at the torturer. Even as the torturer hears him and half-turns, Erwin is drawing his fist back, to cold-cock the man right in the face.]

[Sometimes, barroom tactics have their place.]

☣️ run rabbit run

[enblightened]

A.

[No matter where he may be -- in town, the forest, the docks -- Bigby finds that his heart cannot be still. It pounds hard in his chest, fear clenching, and he's moving, trying to get away from everything, everyone.

Paranoia. He's been afflicted before, but even he can be a slave to it at times. No one is immune to their own faults.

So, he is skittish, making to escape--]

Away from me! Betrayers, every single one of you! Only a matter of time, just a matter of time until you lock me up, throw away the key...


B.

[Fear and running are not things that his beast is used to -- but it feels it too, cursed by being a vileblood.

So even as he runs through the woods in his more bestial self, he is eventually caught by one of the traps. The monster shrieks and howls, thrashing violently, trying to break free at any cost. Both sides of him despise the trap, the panic rising up faster and faster inside, stressing him more.

So as soon as anyone dares approach, the beast writhes around and snarls, snapping its jaws and fangs at anything. Less out of hunger this time, and just fear.]

A.

[terriblepurpose]

It's all right.

[At first glance, anyone might think Paul was a Trench native, the way he's dressed these days; the most obvious clue he isn't is that when everyone else on this street scattered to a chorus of rattling windows and slamming doors, he didn't.

He's pushed back the hood of his long black coat and pulled down the scarf he wrapped around his nose and mouth, his face bare and open. There's plenty of room to run from him in almost any direction, and he's at a generous distance; he made sure of that as he approached. He keeps his gloved hands raised, palms out towards Bigby.

Paul didn't even see what happened to set the man off. He was halfway down the street haggling for thin leather cords made from something the seller refused to identify when the shouting started and the exodus from the street began. He should have gone with them, but - here he is.]

I'm not one of them. It's all right. [Paul doesn't know who 'they' are, or what they want, or if they're even real, but that's not important.] If you'll let me reach into my bag, I can prove it.

[Paul is speaking in a specific vocal register, the hushing, soothing voice used for sick children and wounded animals. It's not the Voice, it has no special power to compel or influence. It's just gentle.

And if his pupils are dilated, if there's a faint prickle of sweat on the back of his neck and inside his new gloves, if his heartbeat is quickened and he's thinking that Gurney was right, he is a perfect idiot - that's also not important, like whoever 'they' are. The important thing is the cinnamon scented incense in his bag, and getting it lit before anything else happens.]

Or you can do it, I can throw it over to you. Whatever you want.

b

[creidim]

[ She's not one of the ones chasing him, neither Darkblood nor Coldblood. But certainly the echoing howls do draw her near. They're not the sounds of something wanting to harm, but something desperate, panicked. A beast in trouble. And while it's often not wise to go off searching for a wounded creature, Luna can't ignore the sounds.

The beast is... uncannily similar to werewolves back home, but she knows better — this isn't home. And they're trapped in one of those horrible traps; she's been seeing plenty of this fresh awfulness of the month. Her heart sinks, twists far too painfully. If she does nothing, they'll be left to the mercy of someone gone mad with this curse. She's been doing what she can to help bring some sense back to those she comes across — but this is just some poor beast. Even they deserve some peace from the curse's effects.

Her footfalls are light through the sparse snowfall within the trees, she makes herself small, keeps low. A black hare moves close to her side, tendrils of smoke quivering from her: Inlé is on high alert. Luna approaches with caution, a pale and sickly-looking girl. Her wand drawn, and she stops short when the creature begins to thrash. ]

It's alright, it's alright— [ She holds a hand up, a defensive gesture. She means no harm, but she's keeping a distance, not wanting to panic the beast further by invading their space. She keeps her voice soft: ] I won't hurt you. I'm here to help.

B. THIS GOT WORDY, APOLOGIES....!

[possessum]

( The tables have been turned for Peter, too. Peter, whose role has always been the prey since before he could even know it — the role of a lamb to sacrifice, slowly being led closer and closer to the mouth of slaughter. Peter, who flinches from a voice raised or a sudden movement, who forever fears those shifting things in the dark corners of a room.

Now he's the hunter: though with the layers of Darkblood and Corruption swallowing him up this month, it could be said that there's hardly any of Peter left at all. He's become— something else. He's become the demon that haunts his body, and the ooze of Corruption progressively reverts Paimon back to that snarling creature that ripped and tore and thrashed, utilised by the cult as an object of terror.

He moves through the woods, crouched and barefoot, sometimes gliding more than running, feet lifting fully off of the ground. The stain of his Corruption creeps up his body — a pitch blackness covering his feet and ankles, his hands and forearms. It spreads from around his eyes and the tips of his ears which are starting to elongate and sharpen at the tips. Horns are just starting to protrude from his head, not quite freed, barely parting the wild tangles of hair around them.

He hears something screaming. A beastlike sound, howls, desperate. The demon moves that way immediately, not scared off but drawn to it, because he can already sense the blood, Vileblood, and it makes his vessel's own Darkblood flash with a black, glittering brilliance, the demon king's spirit a rising cacophony of sounds and languages and colours — beautiful, painful. Angry.

He finds the trapped beast and draws to a quick halt a few feet away, bristling as the creature snaps its jaws. At this point, Paimon is primed to hunt, to kill, but not completely out of control of himself. Not yet. Some of that hungry curiosity of himself lingers, not replacing the desire to silence this Vileblooded thing, but staving it off long enough that he can observe it for a bit first. He's never seen something like this before, or at least not that he can remember. Perhaps his true home of Hell had such beasts.

The demon keeps a distance from those jaws, but he's moving close enough to be clearly in its space. His wide, unblinking eyes never look away as he sits down right in front of the creature, crouched like an animal, knees up and palms flat on the ground. He stares... head cocking too far to the side, long neck tilting birdlike, waiting to see what this trapped creature will do in his presence. )